


Inevitable

by postjentacular



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, Implied (albeit canon-typical) child abuse, Lucius Malfoy's A+ Parenting, M/M, So many flashbacks, mutual drunken handjobs in a filthy loo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 23:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13110522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postjentacular/pseuds/postjentacular
Summary: [Soulmate AU]  In which Harry and Draco (unsurprisingly) fail to notice the obvious until it slaps them in the face.





	Inevitable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [http://ultraleahbaby.tumblr.com/](/gifts?recipient=http%3A%2F%2Fultraleahbaby.tumblr.com%2F).



> Happy Drarry Holidays, [Leah](http://ultraleahbaby.tumblr.com/). You can’t just waive a trope like soulmate tattoos under my nose and expect me to leave it alone! It might not have hit every point in your prompt spot-on, but this pair sometimes just want to do their own snarky thing.
> 
> Major kudos to the mods over at [The Drarry Gift Exchange](http://drarryexchange.tumblr.com/).

Harry’s husband of six hours snuggles tight under his arm, sated. Abandoned blankets pool around their tangled feet, warm brown and pale porcelain, as their sweat begins to cool. “What are we going to tell them?” Harry murmurs into his husband’s unusually dishevelled hair.

“If this is your idea of appropriate post-coital chat, then I really don’t think this,” Draco wags his fingers between them, “is going to work out.”

Harry scrubs at the end-of-a-long-day stubble that’s just starting to pepper his chin, “We’re going to have to tell them something, they’re all going to ask.”

“Fine,” Draco yawns, “just tell them the whole story.” He shuffles about getting more comfortable on Harry’s chest as Harry clears his throat.

Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very–

“Potter.” Draco interrupts, tipping his head up just enough to meet his husband’s eyes. 

“Hmm?”

“Skip to the good bit.”

“It all bollocks,” Ron moaned, scrunching up yet another foot of parchment and tossing it into the crackling flames, “why does it even matter if Merlin and Morgana were soulmates, or if Crowley never found his, or whatever it was that happened to Circe. Shouldn’t we be learning something useful, like, I dunno, say, how to defeat ol’ noseless?”

“Ronald!” Hermione shushed him across the table, “There’s been a question on soulmate magic in every History of Magic O.W.L. since 1708.” 

“It’s not even real, Hermione, not even mum thinks so. Har’, back me up here. You don’t believe you have a soulmate, right?” 

Harry looked up from where he’d been prodding at the five perfectly purple bruises on his forearm that had appeared over the weekend, “Pretty certain if I did Skeeter would be all over it, don’t think someone with a matching one of these,” he pointed to the lightening bolt streaked across his forehead, “would’ve kept it quiet".

“Did either of you ever listen to Binns or even at least pretend to do the reading?” Hermione harrumphed. The boys shook their heads without shame, “It doesn’t work with Dark Magic, your soulmate wouldn’t have a scar any more than a Death Eater’s would have–”

“Oh for the love of Salazar, I said ‘the good bit’ Potter. Anything featuring Cuthbert Binns is, by its very definition, not ‘the good bit.’”

“It’s called foreshadowing.”

“Yes, yes, that’s all very well and good, setting the scene and all that,” Draco drawls, waving his hand dismissively, “but it’s boring and I did have other plans for this evening which I’d like to get to sooner,” he lightly trails his fingers down Harry’s stomach, “rather than lat–”

Malfoy hung upside-down from the stipper pole clad in a pair of shiny gold hotpants that left nothing to the imagina–

“Potter.” Draco’s tone just the wrong side of threatening as he takes his hands back.

“What‽” Harry exclaims, “It’s when I knew for sure.”

“What happens in Vegas says in Vegas.”

“Vegas? It was Croyden–”

“It’s a muggle saying, didn’t your muggles speak to you through your cupboard door?” Draco says with a smirk and a smile.

“–on a Thursday.”

“Same principle, Potter.”

“Fine, husband dearest, you tell it.”

They say it’s not the five years of Healer Academy that breaks you, it’s the first week of night shifts and Draco could see their point. It was only his third night on-call at St Mungo’s Accident and Emergency and he already loathed a good three-quarters of the seemingly ever-cheery staff and even more of the patients. No, he didn’t want a soothing cup of camomile or a rousing rooibos, thank you, Mediwitch. Yes, leaving that cursed family heirloom in the nursery probably was a bad idea. No, the dragon pox vaccine won’t turn your child into a squib but now he’s highly contagious and setting fire to my examination room and no, that isn’t ‘darling’. Yes, the aurors probably will be in to arrest you after your arm grows back and no, I don’t think doxy-brewed moonshine is ‘reasonable cause’.

The incoming major incident siren blared through the hospital, rousing Draco from the mind-numbing monotony of levitating a phial’s worth of glass shards piece-by-piece from the evening’s first snoring drunk’s cheek – the unconscious undoubtedly make the best patients. He flashed an Accio summoning the remaining shards in one fell swoop followed by a quick Episkey over his shoulder as he raced out the door towards the emergency apparition point. The Healer-in-Charge had already begun to hand out assignments as Draco jogged up, the walking wounded being herded to the Spell Damage wards by Trainee Healers. “Healer Malfoy,” she called over the hubbub, “Auror mission gone sour, doesn’t look like anything Dark, but they’ve got at least one coming in by floo, too unstable for apparition.” He didn’t need to be told twice, he twisted on the spot apparating four floors down to the atrium and the bank of floos. The atrium was eerily quiet after the commotion of the apparition point, but it lasted a mere few seconds before the first fireplace roared green and a pair of harried aurors tumbled out onto the squeaky, pale green linoleum followed closely by a highly agitated Harry Potter. 

Potter did not look well; paler than should have been possible for him, he spun around wildly, waving his arms and ranting at whoever, whatever, was in his line of sight. Thank Merlin for small mercies, he was unarmed – no doubt some Gryffindorian colleague having wrestled his wand away for the greater good – but Draco could taste the magic fritzing in the air around them. “I need to know what happened here,” Draco said, in the most professional voice he could muster, “what’s he been hit with?” 

“What hasn’t he?” One of the accompanying aurors said, “Stingers, a babbling curse and a couple of Confringos; there was probably a Confundus in there too.” 

Draco let out a long slow breath, “I need him sedated." 

“Well I don’t fancy adding a stunner or Petrificus Totalus on top of that, do you?" 

“Obviously not,” he snorted, summoning a stretcher, “we’ll be doing this the muggle way.” 

After no small amount of wrestling, a couple of Incarcerous, three attempts at biting Draco’s fingers off, a dozen assorted cuts, scrapes and bruises, and one promise to ‘end your pointy, ferrety face,’ Potter was secured to the floating stretcher. As they began to move towards the elevator, he started to thrash and buck in his restraints, “Oh for the love of Morgana, would you just quit it, Scarhead,” Draco exasperated. 

Potter did not, in fact, quit it. 

By the time the elevator began its slow ascent Draco had resorted to straddling his patient, hands on either side of his head, one stop short of legilimencing into the mess that is Potter’s thoughts and silencing them himself. He was only prevented from doing so by the pesky Healer’s Oath he’d taken on graduation day and the timely arrival of a larger-than-usual phial of Dreamless Sleep which plopped gently onto the stretcher as soon as the elevator doors opened onto the Spell Damage ward. 

A sedated Potter was, as far as Draco was concerned, the best type of Potter. No jinxes, no punches, no being a sarcastic little shit, just peace and quiet for Draco to unravel the hotchpotch of hexes that Potter had thrown himself in front of. And what a hotchpotch it was, he’d clearly been hit with the hexes simultaneously, so instead of stacking like in a normal situation, they’d wound their way around and through each other, knotting into a big ball of bad. A mess which couldn’t have been more Potterian if it had tried. By the time Draco eventually banished the last little hex – of all things, a jelly-legs jinx – and his diagnostic charm came back clear, daylight was starting to seep through the edge of the curtains. A few quick Episkeys took care of the worst of the scratches littering Potter’s face, and another cleared-up the bite marks on his fingers. Draco rubbed away a tingle that crept across his own forehead and blindly cast at the bites he’d all but forgotten on his own fingers. 

“So that’s when you knew?” Harry asks.

“No, Potter,” Draco sighs, “that’s how you do foreshadowing.”

Harry gives a little snort, “Seems more like an excuse to tell a story where I look bad.”

“Well, if you’re going to go around biting people like a Barbarian, what d’you expect?”

“That’s hardly fair,” Harry eyes go wide, “I was… discombobulated.”

“Discombobulated?” Draco asks, eyebrow cocked.

“Discombobulated. Besides, you seemed to like the biting earlier,” Harry rubs the pad of his thumb gently over the reddening welt on Draco’s collarbone as Draco swallows a moan. “So, when did you know?

“That I had a soul mate?”

Draco sat uncomfortably on the settee in the most formal of the Manor’s formal drawing rooms, the leather cool through his shorts and the floor just too far away for his six-year-old legs to reach. Lucius paced in front of him, twirling and twisting his cane through his fingers, “Sit up straight, boy!” He snapped, wand pointed directly at Draco’s chest. Draco jumped to position, head high, hands by his sides, and didn’t dare breathe until his mother’s gentle ‘ahem’ reminded Lucius to drop his wand. 

Draco stared fixedly at the painting on the far wall, a herd of Abraxans coming home from war, his six-year-old logic telling him if he didn’t see the fresh scar on his knee then his father wouldn’t. Six-year-olds get it wrong. 

“What is that, boy?” The cane lashed out again, this time landing square in the middle of the tender scar. 

“A scar, Father.” 

“And where did you get it?” 

He risked a glance at his mother, she gave the slightest shake of her head and took a sip from her bone china teacup. Bedtime stories where just that, stories; soulmates and happily-ever-afters were all well and good snuggled up under the blankets with the twinkling of the constellations dancing across his ceiling, but Draco knew his Father didn’t brook such frivolities. “Sorry Father, I know I oughtn’t, but I played with the peacocks this morning before lessons and–” 

“Enough.” Draco fell silent. “We will deal with this behaviour later. For now I’ll just have to convince the Greengrasses that you’re one of those venturesome types. I trust you can at least pretend to be a Proper Boy for an hour?” 

“Yes, Father.” 

Lucius took up his pacing once again, “Oh, Draco, which peacock was it?” 

“He had the peacock killed; arrogant fuckin’ wankstain.”

“Fuck,” Harry lets out a long slow breath, pulling Draco in tighter. “We still have it, you know?” Entwining their fingers he slides their hands down to his kneecap, the tiny scar still rough to the touch, although all but invisible to the naked eye. “Fell out of a tree,” Harry continues, “chasing a cat. Hurt like hell. Bloody cat just curled up next to me and wouldn’t shoo until the old lady next door found me lying on the lawn bawling my eyes out.” 

Draco snorts, “I married a complete sap. Saviour Of The Wizarding World, indeed.”

“Could be worse, you could’ve married Daphne.”

“Astoria actually,” Draco corrects. “Thankfully after the trials, the betrothal sank faster than Lucius’ popularity.”

“When did you suspect it was me?”

“Never did,” Draco’s cheeks flush a little as a memory tickled at the back of his mind, “I wished it was though, back at Hogwarts, when it was all...” he pauses, fumbling for the right words, and twists his arm under his pillow out of his sight, “...getting a bit too real.” 

“That before or after you broke my nose?” Harry asks lightly.

“Before,” Draco says, under his breath.

“Petrificus Totalus!” The white light shot from Draco’s wand and hit a solid wall of nothing. Nothing landed on the carriage floor with a resounding thump. 

Draco strode over and gave nothing a kick, dislodging the hallowed invisibility cloak. Potter stared up at him, eyes of thunder frozen in place. “You didn't hear anything I care about, Potter. But while I've got you here...” He stamped hard on Potter’s face, heard the crack of bone, felt it squish underfoot. Stepping on Potter’s fingers to reach the cloak, Draco dropped it back over nothing and left the carriage. 

Descending to the platform he felt a trickle of something from his nose, his fingers came away bloody. Damn Potter. Of course, everyone had heard how he can resist the Imperius Curse, but non-verbal, wandless attacks while in a full body bind, that’s a terrifying amount of power, Draco thought. This war will be a close one. 

“You thought I could do that?” Harry asks, “At sixteen‽ I probably can’t even do that now!”

“Yes, yes, that wasn’t one of my smartest moments.” Draco concedes, running a finger gently across the bridge of his nose, “Who fixed it?”

“Tonks.”

“She did a good job, didn’t scar.” Draco pecks a kiss on the tip of Harry’s nose, then works his way down, kiss by kiss, to his lips. Harry – never less in need of an invitation – parts his lips, shifts Draco into his lap, and moves from chaste pecks to filthy, lip-biting, teeth-clattering snogs without missing a beat. Draco follows like a faithful crup, fingers twisting in the bird’s nest Harry passes off as a haircut as hips, crotches and cocks grind, wiggle, and rut.

“You can’t distract me,” Harry pants, pulling back for a breath, “we still need to decide what we’re telling them.”

“Fine,” Draco harrumphs, disentangling himself and thumping back onto his own side of the bed while curling a hand loosely around his stiffening cock. “Eyes across a sleazy club, mutual drunken handjobs in a filthy loo, boom! Here we are, Mister and Mister Malfoy-Potter, pleased to meet you.”

“Draco,” Harry warns.

“What?” Harry cocks a positively Malfoy-esque eyebrow, “What‽”

“Is that what we’re telling your mother?”

“Don’t mention my mother while we’re naked Potter,” Draco says, dropping his cock like it was about to bite, “it’s unseemly.”

“Then take this seriously. Tell me how I got this,” Harry traces the delicate white and yellow flowers on his left forearm.

“Come on Pans, she’ll love it!” Draco practically skipped down the street dragging Pansy tottering in her stilettos behind him.

“I really don’t think–” Pansy almost fell over as Draco screeched to a halt outside what had to be the dingiest shop on the street, if not in the whole of Muggle London; it made the far end of Knockturn Alley look positively salubrious. Draco reached for the door and she pulled him back, “Could we at least go somewhere a little less hepatitis-y?” 

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Pans?” Draco asked pushing into the little shop, “If the last one didn’t kill me, then nothing will.” 

Certain that she saw a real, live cockroach scuttle away from the door, she cursed herself and scraped the bottom of the barrel, “What about your soulmate? I doubt he wants some infected, scabby doodle just because you’re too much of a wuss to go to a proper wizarding artist.” 

“Pah!” Draco scoffed as he stepped into the grimy gloom, “As if I have a soul mate, it’s just you and me, Pans, bitter ol’ spinsters ‘til the end.” 

The tattoo parlour was, against all probabilities, even dingier inside. A gruff middle-aged man sat behind a splintering wooden counter, a stubby rolled-up cigarette between his lips. Draco rolled his sleeve up and thumped his forearm down on the counter, the Dark Mark scowled up. 

“I want it covered.” Draco demanded. The man looked him up and down. “Fine,” Draco harrumphed and pulled a wad of Muggle notes from his pocket dumping them on the counter. “Now?” 

The man pocketed the pile of notes, “What y’ after?

“Flowers.” 

“Gonna need a bit more to go on there, lad. Roses? Lilies? Lavender? Pansies?" 

Draco snorted, “Narcissus.” 

The man looked at Pansy who was more engrossed in her manicure than the debacle unfolding in front of her. “Daffodils,” she clarified. “Tiny, white daffodils.” 

“Fair enough,” he said standing up and pulling back the curtain that made up the back wall separating the shop from the workspace, “this way your highness." 

“Mother was not happy, called it ‘bourgeoisie sentimentality,’” his Narcissa impression was passable, “although on the bright side, she’ll be even less happy that her only child married a… well... a You.”

“Nah,” Harry shakes his head in disagreement, “she likes me. Saved my life, remember?”

“Oh Potter,” Draco pats his arm condescendingly, “Slytherin, remember? You were but a pawn to save yours truly.”

“Really?” Draco nods, “And what would she say about her precious little dragon’s favourite Thursday night pastime?”

As trashy, tawdry clubs went, Euphoria was the epitome: poles, podiums and pitchers of lurid cocktails; loos that’d seen more spunk than toilet cleaner; nameless, sweating, grinding bodies, and Harry Potter loved every last anonymous, sleazy inch of the place. At Euphoria he wasn’t The Chosen One, The Boy Who Lived, soon-to-be Head Auror, he was nothing but another speccy muggle with perma-just-been-fucked hair. 

“You’re determined to tell this story, aren’t you?” Draco’s voice got harder, “What? Can’t resist letting everyone know the posh boy likes a bit of rough? Where else am I going to go, Potter? Goody Two-wands might tolerate me for long enough to stop their progeny vomiting slugs but, in case you hadn’t noticed, ex-Death Eaters aren’t particularly welcome down The Three Broomsticks for a pint of–”

“Will you just...” Harry scrubs a hand through his hair, causing it to stand up in new and interesting ways. “Listen, trust me, it’s vital to the bloody story, okay?” Harry places a gentle kiss between Draco’s furrowed brows which does nothing to lessen his scowl. 

“You’ve been staring at me all night.” Three pints in, Harry’s reactions were dulled enough he didn’t jump when Malfoy practically slithered out of the shadows and all but growled in his ear. 

“So?” He said focussing on taking another sip without squirming at the tight body pressing into his back. 

Malfoy continued, “Just like old times.” 

Harry took a step forward and turned to face him, “What do you want, Malfoy?” 

“Why were you staring at me?” his smirk bordered on playful, setting Harry on edge. 

“Why do you think? You’re the centre of bloody attention up there in those bloody indecent shorts.” 

“They’re hardly indecent!” Malfoy gave his hips a lascivious shake, “Besides, I have a shirt on.” He pulled it open and gave another little shimmy as Harry’s eyes drifted south then, caught, flashed back up. 

“I can see your stiffy from halfway across the bloody club,” Harry hissed, “that’s indecent.” 

“Indecent would be doing nothing about it,” his voice pure sex. 

Blood rushed to Harry’s cheeks which he gallantly tried to ignore, “Are you fuckin’ kidding me, Malfoy?” 

Malfoy closed the gap between them, “I’m certainly not kidding that,” he skimmed his palm lightly over the bulge in Harry’s jeans. 

“Fuuuuck.” 

A sly smile crept across Malfoy’s face, “If you can last that long.” 

The dregs of Harry’s beer silenced the arguments his sense of reason had been trying to make, “This is the worst idea anyone’s ever fuckin’ had.” He grabbed Malfoy’s wrist, “Are you coming?” 

The soles of their shoes creaked on the sticky tiles as Harry pulled them into the the first open cubicle. He certainly didn’t want to kneel in that, and if he wasn’t going to, then he was pretty certain Malfoy wouldn’t either. You can take the boy out of the Manor... 

Malfoy ooffed as he was spun around and pushed up against the cubicle door, the handle dug into his hip, but it didn’t slow him down. His deft fingers made quick work of Harry’s belt and zipper, while he ripped open his shirt with his teeth; the buttons easily popped off, quickly lost to the grime beneath their feet. Given hotpants are considerably less complicated, Harry already had them tugged down around Malfoy’s thighs – no underwear to get in the way – and a warm, solid hand wrapped around his cock. 

Malfoy flicked his arm just-so causing his wand to peek out of the pocket in his shirt sleeve, without a word he conjured a handful of slippery lube and took Harry’s cock in hand. Not to be outdone Harry filled his own hand with slick, but without the need of his wand. Malfoy scowled at the needless exhibitionism and bit down on the divot on Harry’s collarbone to try and wipe off the positively Malfoy-esque smirk that had no place on his stupid Potter face. Malfoy twisted, squeezed and stroked perfectly and when his other five equally skillful fingers found Harry’s ball sack, Harry clamped his lips, mouth, teeth onto his flawless pale neck to muffle his scream. Handjobs in the loos may not be dignified, but at least they could be discrete. 

With a final tug Harry came hard, pinpricks of light invaded his vision, Malfoy’s spunk covered his hands. As he breathed deep, trying to think of anything other than why a handjob with his enemy in a filthy loo was the best sex he’d ever had – and was ever likely to have – he felt the faint crackle of a Tergeo. “Ta, everso, Potter,” Malfoy said convivially as pulled up his shorts and let himself out. Harry sank onto the toilet seat, absolutely spent. He gave himself a couple of minutes to catch his breath, then tucked his sticky, spent cock away and disapparated home.

Harry apparated into his bedroom with a crack, kicked his shoes off and dumped his sweaty shirt on top of them. He padded into the bathroom and flicked on the light, “Merlin, you look like–” he held up a warning finger to shush the mirror.

He knew exactly what he looked like. 

The splash of cold water did little to temper the heat in his cheeks and the mirror didn’t need to be able to say anything to point out the smattering of darkening welts across his neck. Fuck! There were far more than he remembered; glamouring them would have to be a problem for future-Harry. He cast a Scougify as he left the bathroom and shuddered as it washed over him at little too harshly; he dropped the rest of his clothes on the floor – another problem for future-Harry – and climbed into bed. 

He struggled to get comfortable in the dark; the sheets, crisp and cool, did nothing to temper the gentle warmth he could still feel across his neck. As he rolled over his hip buzzed with a flash of pain, he ran his hand over the sore spot and felt the familiar heat of a bruise forming, as he pressed gently around the edges he tried to remember what could have caused the door-handle-shaped– 

“Shit.” 

“That’s when you knew?” Draco asks, the harshness from before gone.

Harry nods in agreement, “Yup.”

“But that was months ago, why didn’t you…”

“What was I going to say?” Harry throws his arms across his face, “Hey Malfoy, I know we hate each other and all, but the sex was fantastic and I think we’re soulmates so how about it‽”

Draco scoffs, “So if we hadn’t bumped into each other today then what? You would never have done anything?”

“Dunno, maybe,” Harry peels his arm away but continues to stare at the ceiling, “I thought it might be too awkward for you, us.”

“Fair play, probably would’ve been if you’d asked me out for a coffee…”

“Skinny cap for Diego, americano with room for Harry at the bar, two green teas up next,” the barista rattled off the orders without taking a breath. Harry sorry-ed and excuse me-ed his way to the counter where the ceramic mug sat in a little pool of frothed milk. 

“Sorry, hi, sorry,” Harry tried to catch the barista’s attention, “but I ordered this to go?” He asked in more of a question than he meant to. 

“Two green teas,” the barista shouted in his face, “soy latte to go!” Harry picked up the mug and tried to get out of the way of the next wave approaching to collect their – hopefully correct – orders. He beg-your-pardon-ed his way towards the long communal table in the centre of the café, there were no free stools, but at least he could lean on the end while he downed his coffee and got out of there as quickly as possible; he’d only just reached the table when the girl next to him burst into a fit of giggles, arms flailed everywhere and jostled his scalding hot coffee over him.

“Buggering fu-” he cursed, shoving his cup into the hands of the person on the stool next to him before ripping his sodden hoodie off. 

The person next to Harry set the half-empty americano down next to his own barely touched skinny cappuccino and leaned over the table to grab a handful of napkins. He stalled as he moved to hand them to Harry, “What’s that?” he pointed at what was clearly his own tattoo which was bewilderingly decorating Harry’s arm. Harry stuttered nothing that could be called an explanation as the person looked up. 

“Of fuckin’ course,” Draco slumped defeatedly in his stool. 

“Well,” Harry tried, “it does explain a lot.” 

“So, what do we tell them?”

“It was inevitable.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Standard fanfic disclaimer:** If you recognise it, it belongs to J.K. Rowling; this is just fanfic for nothing other than entertainment purposes.


End file.
